


The Case of the Missing Mirado

by Into_the_Ether



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boredlock, Gen, Humor, I bet you're wondering what pwung is?, Pwung, Sherlock Being Sherlock, johnlock if you squint, not as dirty as it sounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 20:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3264059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Into_the_Ether/pseuds/Into_the_Ether
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was an odd sound. Sort of a short vibratey ‘pwung’ if John had to put an onomatopoeia to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Missing Mirado

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! Long time lurker first time poster. I'm not sure what this little ficlet is, just kinda popped in my head and I've been itching to post on AO3 for a while now. I figure this would be a good dip into the pool before I dive in and really start flailing. Enjoy!

It was an odd sound. Sort of a short vibratey ‘pwung’ if John had to put an onomatopoeia to it.

He heard it as he came up the stairs with a carefully balanced plate full of cinnamon rolls, still blissfully warm from the oven—complements of Mrs. Hudson—one already half-eaten in John’s free hand as he trudged upwards.

He was nearly to the front door when he heard it again… _pwung_.

As John spanned the threshold into the flat, the doctor spotted Sherlock still equipped in his sleepwear complete with burgundy dressing gown since it was Sunday…‘ _Obviously John, don’t you know your Khmer culture? Red is the color of the day.’_

In usual fashion, Sherlock was strewn length-wise across his chair, long legs dangling over the leather arm, crooked under his knees. The _unusual_ fashion however was Sherlock possessing what was unmistakably a crossbow in his nimble pale fingers, aiming it at the far wall just over the couch. The detective squeezed up on a thin trigger bar that ran parallel underneath the stock, firing the bow.

 _Pwung_.

“Please don’t tell me you nicked that from a museum.” John winced, coming further into the room, eyeing both weapon and detective with equal concern. It was a dated looking contraption, nothing like a modern crossbow. This one was built almost completely of wood—sanded smooth, stained warm brown and lacquered with hand-forged metal pieces. He was a little foggy on his medieval weaponry—uni course eons ago, John needed a free elective and took Medieval Studies for the warfare alone. But, he believed that particular style was called a goats-foot bow, named for the long removable two-pronged apparatus that aided in pulling the bowstring back into place via leverage.

It was honestly beautiful craftsmanship. For a crossbow. For a crossbow in their sitting room. For a crossbow in their sitting room being fired by a very bored man.

“Weapons enthusiast.” The detective retorted, attaching the lever and pulling the handle back slowly until the string clicked into the catch. “My compensation for proving he wasn’t the one tampering with the opposing army’s equipment at their biannual reenactments. Turned out it was their own lord. People wept John. Men in full plate armor actually _wept_. It was bizarre.”

“Well, even mock war does funny things to people.” John shrugged “No bolts?” He asked after spotting the empty channel.

“Unfortunately.” Sherlock frowned, firing the crossbow again. _Pwung_.

“Mmmm no.” John waved a glaze covered finger as he sat down in his chair opposite. “I think that’s actually fortunate.”

Pulling up the newspaper tucked between the arm of his chair and the seat cushion, John put his now three quarters-eaten cinnamon roll down and flicked to the Sunday crossword, sucking his fingers clean. Resting the paper on his bent leg he glanced around the side table, then the general surrounding area. “Sherlock have you seen my pencil?”

The doctor glanced over to find Sherlock aiming _at_ nothing _with_ noting before _pwung_. He lowered the crossbow and sighed. “Up.”

John’s brow furrowed. “Up?”

“Yes the direction opposite of down John. Up.” The detective pointed with a swirl of his finger towards the ceiling. John slowly turned his head northward.

Thirteen…yes thirteen pencils were partially embedded in the plaster above. Like some sort of large porcupine had waddled on through and discharged. John nodded to himself, thinning his lips. He supposed it could have been worse…they could have been bullet holes. Or acid burns. Or scorch marks. Or letter openers. Or god only knows up there ready to drip or fall or collapse.

“That was a good pencil.” He said forlornly, only then noticing the mess of pencil shavings littering the floor round his flatmate’s chair.

Sherlock hummed in agreement, wiggling his bare toes. “Stuck rather marvelously.” _Pwung_.

“Nothing in your inbox?” John asked with a heavy sigh, placing his paper aside and opting for his laptop. There had to be something there. It was only a matter of time before all the biros in the flat ended up there too. Beyond him, John heard the bow ratchet back again, Sherlock discovering he could keep it attached and fire in quicker succession.

“Nope.” _Pwung_.

“Lestrade?”

“ _Noooo_.” _Pwung_.

“Mycroft?”

“God no!” Sherlock bellowed yanking the lever and firing. He then proceeded to wilt, limbs giving way, head falling back over the other side of his chair, crossbow thudding gently as the front stirrup hit the ground where it sagged from his grasp. “John, I’m stagnating. I’m at my wits end.”

The doctor rolled his eyes, clicking through several emails. _Christ_. These were boring even to him. _Right. Something else then_. “Why…don’t we go for a walk yeah? Weather’s nice enough. We can sit in the park and play Name That Vice.” John suggested, hoping to appeal to Sherlock’s innate need to show off to him.

Grey eyes met his, sharp and bright with an unsettling amount calculation. “Yes...but the crossbow comes too.” He said frankly.

John pursed his lips, opening them with a little pop. “Will you go if I say no?”

Sherlock thought a moment, narrowing his gaze somewhere over John’s head. “No.” He replied, heaving the weapon up and cradling it on his chest where he cocked it again. “However I think you _know_ the alternative.” The detective warned, idly aiming at the Cluedo board still impaled on the wall with a dagger. _Pwung._

 _God help me._ “Fine.” John contested, shoving the rest of his cinnamon roll into his mouth and getting to his feet. He stalked over to where his shoes sat by the door. “But you will _not_ shoot anyone. And if there’s even a hint of an officer nearby we’re leaving.” At least they could kill a few hours, then maybe pop somewhere for lunch. John tried to imagine hitting up any of their usual haunts with a 14 th century ranged weapon in tow. Oh hell, if Sherlock could ride the tube splattered in blood with a harpoon then they could get Chinese takeaway with a crossbow.

Leaping up, Sherlock swanned passed him into his room, crossbow resting on his shoulder like the detective was marching into battle. He returned minutes later pressed, dressed, and armed.

John took one look at him and chucked softly as he pulled up the zip of his coat. “You look like a well-to-do Rambo.”

Sherlock knitted his brow, pausing as he threw on his Belstaff, reluctantly needing to rest his weapon on the chair by the door. “Who?”

The doctor blinked. “Rambo. You know, First Blood? Sylvester Stallone.” John received nothing but a blank stare. “They made like twenty-five sequels.”

“You’ve _never_ heard of Rambo?”

Looping his scarf around his neck, Sherlock cinched it closed, narrowing his eyes at the coat hooks. “Is that the one with the time traveling cyborg?”

“That’s…that’s The Terminator.” John smiled with a sort of mystified delight at the detective’s profile. “How is it possible you know about that but not simple astronomy?”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock flipped his collar and was about to reply with something snappish when he turned to find his flatmate holding out his newest prized item, a warm expression on John’s face. “So…how _did_ you know it was their Lord messing around with the equipment?” He remarked, carefully handing it over to Sherlock.

The detective gave him a small smile as he tucked it beneath the long front panel of his coat as best as he could before casually replying “Applesauce”.

“Applesauce.” John parroted, looking utterly confused as Sherlock strode out the open doorway and towards the stairs.

“Yeah, I’ll tell you on the way.” Sherlock called behind him, bounding downwards. “Make sure that door closes tight, it’s been off the last few days. Wood must be shrinking with the cold weather.” His voice growing fainter with every step.

With a huff of a laugh, the doctor shook his head and pulled the door shut behind him with a solid slam.

A pencil dislodged from aloft; hitting the floor and bouncing twice before it rolled just near the foot of John’s chair.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! In case you were curious this is what a [goats-foot crossbow](http://s42.photobucket.com/user/AsianPower/media/levercrossbow.jpg.html) looks like. Pretty snazzy.


End file.
